


Sunflower

by TimelessRiver



Series: Somewhere Down That Road [6]
Category: My Own Private Idaho (1991)
Genre: Fade to Black, M/M, Scott loves Mikey, Short & Sweet, Told from Scott's perspective, kinda poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24562888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimelessRiver/pseuds/TimelessRiver
Summary: It's Summer: The sunflowers are in full bloom, and so is he.
Relationships: Scott Favor/Mike Waters
Series: Somewhere Down That Road [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1390693
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	Sunflower

**Author's Note:**

> I've been going through a difficult time lately in a negative head space, so I'm processing some of those emotions through writing. I still can't get over MOPI, and it's very cathartic to write about these fellas once in a while.

It’s Summer: The sunflowers are in full bloom, and so is he.  
He was disappointed when he learned that sunflowers were annuals and would have to be replanted again next year, but sometimes they have a way of persisting—not unlike a certain someone I know.

I never thought I had much of a green thumb; mother did all of the gardening, and I was more than happy to side along as she worked diligently to prune the roses and tend to the small vegetable patch that we had. I remember how hard she tried to instill some iota of knowledge in me, but the memories get hazier the harder I try to recall them. The past few years have shaped my present just as much as they’ve stolen my past. Too many bottles emptied; too much wool pulled over my eyes when I thought that I was safe.

I wonder if Mike feels the same.  
No, that’s foolish—I know that he does.

I see it in the cinch of his brow when he cautiously eyes up the gal at the salon who cut his unruly hair—like he recognizes her, but as if he wish he didn’t. I hear it in the loosely-connected string of melodies he ties together—senseless, but not without a charm that undoubtedly means something to him; though, he’s getting better at songwriting bit-by-bit.  
I can tell that he still misses her; still hinges his worth on the ghost of someone who may not even exist in the way that he remembers her. I won’t take it from him, though—I refuse to take it from him.  
Sometimes the ghosts are all that we’re left with when we’re forced to give up the chase.

I love Michael Waters: beautiful, haunted, just the way that he is. He still sleeps a lot, but not as much since having been treated for narcolepsy. He sleeps on schedule, but I like to think that he does it for the pleasure of knowing he can do so safely, now.  
He can sleep on the couch; sleep in the yard; sleep comfortably beneath the coverlet while I count the seconds that pass until my arm goes numb from the weight of his head tucked against it.

One thing I’ll never forget for as long as I live is the vibrancy of his eyes: blue, but never cold—and I love them best when he first wakes up. In those moments, there is no sordid past; there is no pain, no misgivings; no record of wrongs. Mike is sensitive— to the surprise of no one— but every tear he’s ever shed was just another part of himself that he was forced to give away. I think about that moment in Italy when the dam finally broke and a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t leave came tumbling down his cheeks and onto the floor. I’ve forgotten a lot of things, but I’ll never forget that.

Well, no sense dwelling on the past.

“Hey Scotty, are we gonna do this thing, or what?!”  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!”

Mike has a small bouquet in his arms that’s intended for an associate at the animal shelter he’s been working for, and he’s looking pretty damn proud of himself—as he should be. He likes to feel useful, you know; likes the knowledge that even small accomplishments have a major impact on the people around him. He’s looking better these days; better than I could’ve ever imagined in the way that the sunlight frames his hair like a halo; the way that he carries his body with purpose now when he’s actually awake in the daylight.

His eyes catch mine as I sprint toward him, and in a split second I near eternity.

His face: clear, and forever young.


End file.
